Eighteen
The sun was setting when Poirot came to what was called officially Mill Cottage, and known
locally as the Pink Cottage down by Lawder’s
Creek1. He knocked on the door and it was flung
open with such suddenness that he started back. The angry-looking young man in the
doorway2
stared at him for a moment without recognizing him. Then he gave a short laugh.
“Hallo,” he said, “it’s the sleuth. Come in, M. Poirot. I’m packing up.”
Poirot accepted the invitation and stepped into the cottage. It was plainly, rather badly
furnished. And Alec Legge’s personal possessions were at the moment taking up a
disproportionate amount of room. Books, papers and articles of stray clothing were strewn all
around, an open suitcase stood on the floor.
“The final breakup of the ménage,” said Alec Legge. “Sally has cleared out. I expect you know
that.”
“I did not know it, no.”
Alec Legge gave a short laugh.
“I’m glad there’s something you don’t know. Yes, she’s had enough of married life. Going to
link up her life with that tame architect.”
“I am sorry to hear it,” said Poirot.
“I don’t see why you should be sorry.”
“I am sorry,” said Poirot, clearing off two books and a shirt and sitting down on the corner of
the sofa, “because I do not think she will be as happy with him as she would be with you.”
“She hasn’t been particularly happy with me this last six months.”
“Six months is not a lifetime,” said Poirot, “it is a very short space out of what might be a long
happy married life.”
“Talking rather like a parson, aren’t you?”
“Possibly. May I say, Mr. Legge, that if your wife has not been happy with you it is probably
more your fault than hers.”
“She certainly thinks so. Everything’s my fault, I suppose.”
“Not everything, but some things.”
“Oh, blame everything on me. I might as well drown myself in the damn’ river and have done
with it.”
Poirot looked at him thoughtfully.
“I am glad to observe,” he remarked, “that you are now more
perturbed3 with your own troubles
than with those of the world.”
“The world can go hang,” said Mr. Legge. He added bitterly, “I seem to have made the most
complete fool of myself all along the line.”
“Yes,” said Poirot, “I would say that you have been more unfortunate than
reprehensible4 in your
conduct.”
Alec Legge stared at him.
“Who hired you to sleuth me?” he demanded. “Was it Sally?”
“Why should you think that?”
“Well, nothing’s happened officially. So I concluded that you must have come down after me on
a private job.”
“You are in error,” replied Poirot. “I have not at any time been sleuthing you. When I came
down here I had no idea that you existed.”
“Then how do you know whether I’ve been unfortunate or made a fool of myself or what?”
“From the result of observation and reflection,” said Poirot. “Shall I make a little guess and will
you tell me if I am right?”
“You can make as many little guesses as you like,” said Alec Legge. “But don’t expect me to
play.”
“I think,” said Poirot, “that some years ago you had an interest and sympathy for a certain
political party. Like many other young men of a scientific
bent5. In your profession such
sympathies and tendencies are naturally regarded with suspicion. I do not think you were ever
seriously compromised, but I do think that pressure was brought upon you to
consolidate6 your
position in a way you did not want to consolidate it. You tried to withdraw and you were faced
with a threat. You were given a
rendezvous7 with someone. I doubt if I shall ever know that young
man’s name. He will be for me always the young man in a turtle shirt.”
Alec Legge gave a sudden explosion of laughter.
“I suppose that shirt was a bit of a joke. I wasn’t seeing things very funny at the time.”
Hercule Poirot continued.
“What with worry over the fate of the world, and the worry over your own predicament, you
became, if I may say so, a man almost impossible for any woman to live with happily. You did not
confide8 in your wife. That was unfortunate for you, as I should say that your wife was a woman of
loyalty9, and that if she had realized how unhappy and desperate you were, she would have been
wholeheartedly on your side. Instead of that she merely began to compare you, unfavourably, with
a former friend of hers, Michael Weyman.”
He rose.
“I should advise you, Mr. Legge, to complete your packing as soon as possible, to follow your
wife to London, to ask her to forgive you and to tell her all that you have been through.”
“So that’s what you advise,” said Alec Legge. “And what the hell business is it of yours?”
“None,” said Hercule Poirot. He withdrew towards the door. “But I am always right.”
There was a moment’s silence. Then Alec Legge burst into a wild
peal10 of laughter.
“Do you know,” he said, “I think I’ll take your advice. Divorce is damned expensive. Anyway,
if you’ve got hold of the woman you want, and are then not able to keep her, it’s a bit humiliating,
don’t you think? I shall go up to her flat in Chelsea, and if I find Michael there I shall take hold of
him by that hand-knitted pansy tie he wears and
throttle11 the life out of him. I’d enjoy that. Yes, I’d
enjoy it a good deal.”
His face suddenly lit up with a most attractive smile.
“Sorry for my
filthy12 temper,” he said, “and thanks a lot.”
He clapped Poirot on the shoulder. With the force of the blow Poirot staggered and all but fell.
Mr. Legge’s friendship was certainly more painful than his animosity.
“And now,” said Poirot, leaving Mill Cottage on painful feet and looking up at the darkening
sky, “where do I go?”
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